


Mayfly Days

by Chimerari



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Backstory, Canonical Character Death, Durin Family, Gen, Pre-Movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-11 14:00:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chimerari/pseuds/Chimerari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At heart they are architects, musicians, artists<br/>At heart they are dreamers</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mayfly Days

The piece of charcoal hovers above the blank page, twitching, a fledging longing for flight.

He drops it.

 

 

At first the memories are too fresh, his hand paralyzed by bitterness. Then it’s the everyday mundane, devouring them all. Heating up the furnace at the crack of dawn, stumbling back home wearing a crown of stars. More often than not he’d doze off at the table, dinner half eaten.

He’s a smith now; everything else is shadows and smoke.

 

 

Dis is the only one who mourns openly. For that, he’s inexplicably envious. She’s traded all her finery along the way, except a pair of silver clasps, made by Thrain for his little treasure a lifetime ago. Compared to the rest of her dowry, the clasps are worth next to nothing. But they are Thrain, they’re their father’s bellowing laugh and twinkling eyes, piggyback rides up the watch tower, gazing down on the giant statues that guard their home---the mightiest kingdom in all Middle Earth.

They learn they’re not invincible in the cruellest ways.

 

 

For more than three decades his paint lays forgotten. Until Fili, head barely coming to his knees, peers up at him with those sea eyes.

‘Don’t you miss Erebor, uncle?’

He busies himself with the wet stone, doesn’t look up.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Mama talks about it all the time, but you never do. What’s Erebor like?’

He opens his mouth, and finds no word. Not for the good parts and definitely, definitely not for the bad. Cornered, he grasps for the last straw.

‘I could show you.’

 

 

His fingers are stiff; lines come out tense and jagged. But he pushes himself to put pen to paper. It’s the least he could do for Fili, who’s never known the grandeur that should be his by birth right.

It’s worth it, seeing the wonder in Fili’s eyes. Guiding his tiny fist and points out the things of importance: the Arkenstone, pale as the moon, colder than ice; the King’s seat, great warriors would walk within fifty paces of the throne, nobilities would bow within ten.

‘What about me?’

‘You? You are of royal blood. You’re not bound by those rules.’

‘Uncle, when you get Erebor back, can I sit there with you? Just once, promise I’ll be good.’

If only, my heir, if only.

 

 

Once he starts it’s hard to stop.

The Erebor in his leather-bound book is untainted by dragonfire. It makes him smile when Fili gingerly walks those chubby fingers down the banqueting hall (‘marble floor polished so fine you could see you face in it’). The armoury, lit up by sunlight coming through the high windows---Frerin and he used to play hide and seek among the axes, curling up behind a shield.

The royal chambers with their domed ceilings, tales of Durin the Deathless painstakingly illustrated, circles of armour-clad figures going up and up, Mahal’s hall at the very top. From birth they’ve been taught that honour is to ascend, to achieve greatness for their people so that one day, others would recreate their image with a song and a prayer in their heart.

The Vault is the only thing he doesn’t draw. In his weaker moment he’ll admit to himself that he’s terrified of waking the dragon, of shadows closing in long before that.

 

 

When Dis’ belly swells with her second child, he gets Bifur to carve a cylinder that can be hung from the crib. Winds a roll of parchment along the outside, faces of Thror and Thrain and Frerin carefully drawn by his own hand.

Fili would stand by the empty crib for hours, studying the new toy with rapt interest, so much so Thorin has to promise to make another one just for him.

 

 

Eni goes to war, and like so many others, does not come back.

For seven days and seven nights Dis fails to utter a single word, eyes hollowed by grief. Fili follows Thorin around like a stray, cradling Kili in his arms. His hair, which normally shines like spun gold from Dis’ vigorous brushing, hangs limp and tangled. He doesn’t have the heart to send them back to their own rooms, not with Fili so determinedly holding back tears, shoulders squared.

So he lets them share his rickety cot, one arm curled around them both. Kili clinging to Fili’s sleeve while Fili twists Thorin’s braid around a wrist, their little heads bent together.

They all sleep fitfully. Thorin snaps awake in the dead of night to find one of the boys curling tighter into his chest, small frame wrecked by tremors.

On the third night Kili starts to wail. Nothing can coax him back to sleep, not sweet milk or Fili’s priced tin soldiers. Fili fiddles with the bottom of his nightshirt, mumbles out something.

‘Speak up, boy.’

‘…mama always sings when Kili gets like this.’

Erebor was never silent; the distant thud and hum of miners chipping away at the mountain a constant background noise. Then there were the golden harps at dinner table, played by ladies with jewel encrusted nails. Fiddles and flutes the night guards carried around to keep themselves entertained. Drums, drums that welcomed guests and warned of perils.

‘Listen,’ his mother used to say, combing through black strands that would one day be long enough for braids.

‘Listen carefully. When you’re grown and off to fight battles far, far away, you can always follow the mountain’s song home.’

But now his heart is empty of its melody, no soft lullaby sung in her clear voice. No hymns of spring, or love.

‘Uncle?’ Fili tugs on his hands, looking away. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…’

He’s lost in his own head, running and running, shoving doors wide open, frantically searches for something, _anything_ among the charred debris. Until a note rises in him that echoes like the first strike of Aule’s hammer. A note that shakes him to the core.

 

 

He teaches them the language of the old. Scowls when their brushstrokes slant to the side. Do you think our home is built on crooked pillars, boy? Corrects their hold on the quill with a firm hand.

Remember Erebor. Remember the stone columns I drew for you, taller than eyes could see. You need to honour what makes your kingdom stand tall beneath a mountain, or you will be lost forever.

 

 

He thought he’d stop when they’re old enough to read and write. But Kili has taken after his brother, always climbing into Thorin’s lap with a gap toothed grin: just one more picture, please, uncle. The sketchbook he’s filled up for Fili has been passed down to Kili, who wants to know beyond Erebor, wants to know about orcs and wargs and eagles (he’s careful never to mention dragons, at least). So Thorin draws another bookful for him, even though he’s never seen an eagle himself. Closes his eyes and tries to recall an old favourite toy---a bronze falcon poised for flight, feathers lifting as if a strong wind was all it needed to soar.

It takes a lot more convincing to dissuade Kili from wanting a warg.

\---but uncle, they look just like Zharmur when we found him. I’m sure they just need a good master---

Zharmur is the starved mutt Kili and Fili begged, **begged** Dis to let them keep. Trots alongside the boys when they go fetch water every morning.

 

 

Fili is the one with enough patience to sit for hours and learn about shading and proportion. Music, on the other hand, is something that comes naturally to both of them. Often he’ll find his viol needs retuning, or the bow goes missing then shows up again in all sorts of places. When Balin returns from his trip to the Iron Hills, he brings the rascals a pair of small fiddles, perhaps as a joke. The house is filled with squeaky, broken notes for days after. Dis eventually has to forbid them from practicing within her earshot.

Undeterred, they smuggle the instruments out, wedged between the wooden sword and shield. Dwalin, the stern master that he is, isn’t averse to adjusting their grips on a fingerboard as well as an axe.

They promise Thorin duets for his coronation, or to woo princesses for their uncle with a serenade or two. Until Dwalin tells them, in no uncertain terms, that the pleasure of the latter belongs to him and him alone.

 

 

He’s survived the dragon, the long dark road to Ered Luin, battles and ambushes, so it stands to reason that he should be waylaid by a cut finger.

It’s the height of summer, the earth baked bone dry; every dragging step brings up a puff of dust. Even the most modest of Men have stripped down to their breeches.

He doesn’t remember the injury itself, just a sting he binds with a piece of cloth and forgets about.

The insistent throbbing can be ignored easily enough. If it gets a bit harder to get out of bed in the mornings, or that he can barely stomach any food, he puts it down to the heat, and waves off the concerned glances.

Until Dwalin dumps him on Dis’ doorstep, muttering about stone-headed royalties who almost face plant into the forge. By then he doesn’t really have the strength to argue.

Oin comes over, takes one look at his swollen, oozing thumb and curses under his breath. He knows it’s bad when Dis says nothing after walking Oin to the door, wrings out another cool flannel and drapes it over his forehead---beaded with sweat even though he’s shivering beneath the fur.

Over the years she has grown into a shield maiden in her own right, has perfected the skill of matching every blow with dullness. To never crumble under despair, or worse, the surge of false hope.

The gentle tugging at his temple tells him Dis is redoing his braids: something their mother used to do when they were little, wanting some attention for bruises and skinned knees. Back when he still allowed himself to be comforted by kisses on the forehead.

He clenches his jaw against the memories; a longing so strong it tastes like blood in his mouth.

Mind addled by the sickly sweet potion, he drifts.

Thorin wakes feeling as if he’s been dipped in water from neck down. The flickering light stabs at his crusty eyelids. He can’t seem to move his left arm, and there is a faint humming coming from his right.

He tenses, chest heaving. For one breathless moment he’s back in Erebor, struggling to free himself from under the rubbles.

The humming stops---a hesitant touch to his shoulder---then starts again, louder this time.

A song, wading its way through the thick fog of panic.

_Music, music in the deep. Listen and the mountain will guide you home._

A halo of gold swims into focus. Fili scratches at the back of his head, sheepish.

‘I don’t, remember all the words.’

He glances down to his left hand, trapped under Kili’s cheek. Seeing him looking, Fili snorts. ‘And he promised to keep watch too.’

It hurts a little to laugh, his throat parched, but he couldn’t help the hoarse chuckle as Kili blinks awake, mashing a fist into his eye socket just like when he was still a dwarfling.

 

 

For all his notions of reclaiming their homeland, burglary isn’t one of them.

‘A dragon cannot be defeated by brute force.’ Gandalf regards him steadily, not backing down an inch. ‘You of all people should know that.’

He does. Doesn’t mean he have to like the wizard’s plan. Distrusts any victory not won by blood and steel.

It’s an offer nonetheless, half a plan is still better than anything he’s had in eons.

That night his dreams are filled with flames once again. Not those from the mouth of the dragon, but of the old Erebor---white hot sparks pinging off the anvil; hog roast on Durin’s day, the entire kingdom gathered around an open fire, princes and miners alike sharing mead and dripping meat off the bone.

 

 

Dwalin is ready to fly out of the door without his boots. Balin at least has the presence of mind to enquire about this Gandalf fellow, insisting on hearing about the chance meeting again and again, great white brows knitted in thought.

‘Did he mention what this, help, might be?’

Thorin shakes his head. Wizards are curious folks, ones he prefers not to approach unless he has no other option.

Balin lays a hand on his arm, a thousand tales in that one gesture: Thror, Thrain, losses far beyond a mountain of their own, victories too thin to keep their people warm.

‘Do not fight me on this.’ A plea wrapped up in a command. Balin nods tersely.

The road home cannot be paved by one man’s desire alone, however feverish.

 

 

‘When are you going to tell me?’

Dis trains her eyes on the piece of dough, kneading it with more force than necessary. Thorin sighs inwardly; he’s never been any good at secrecy.

‘I will not ask them to come.’

Dis laughs, a clipped sound. ‘They’ve already packed. Mahal help those who try to stop them.’

‘They will obey if I---‘

‘Command?’ Dis keeps her back turned. ‘As a king, or as my brother?’

‘Both.’

‘Then you are a bigger fool than I thought.’

‘I could not ask them to fight for what they’ve never even seen.’

Dis whirls around, eyes ablaze. ‘Erebor runs in their blood as much as yours and mine.’ The corners of her mouth droop, rueful. ‘You have taught them thus.’

Thorin starts, suddenly heavy with guilt. Dis reaches over, folds his fists in two powdery palms.

‘Promise me one thing.’

He shudders, wary of words he has no right to utter, not after Frerin.

‘Promise me to do it for the land, for our people, not the gold.’ She spits, uncharacteristically vicious. ‘Never the gold.’

‘Or you will pluck every hair from my head. I know, sis.’ He chuckles, grateful that the old threat brings some colour back to her cheeks.

 

 

He remembers that one time Balin asks Kili what he wants for his name day. Kili glances at Thorin, wide eyed, mouth shaping the word with all the solemnity a child could muster.

‘Erebor.’

The room falls silent. He stands, pushing his way out into the open air. The hills roll and tumble in the distance, spindled tree tops merging into the vast grey of the sky. He’s always found the sight comforting, now it threatens to bring him to his knees.

The desperation that plagued his father for years slammed home with new, frightening clarity. What is he? An heir without hope, a king without a mountain, a leader whose people are scattered.

It’s Dis who comes out to stand beside him, shoulder to shoulder.

‘He is a Durin, make no mistake.’

Thorin turns, puzzled. She slips her calloused hand into his, squeezing. Sometimes he forgets, has to blink until the ghost of her---a cloud of silk and brocade waiting to be lifted by her big brother---recedes and it’s the Dis of here and now that stands tall. More queenly than all those gilded ladies in their glittering halls.

Then it dawns on him.

All Durins dream, and they dream alike.

**Author's Note:**

> This pretty much stemmed from a game of thrones quote: Don't ask your men to die for a stranger. Then I thought, Thorin perhaps isn't someone who's eloquent/comfortable with words, et voila, artistic!Thorin. 
> 
> In the book Dis was 10 when the dragon came, I unfairly aged her ;P Also took some liberty with Thorin's instrument of choice. Any other inaccuracies are entirely my fault, please do point them out. C+C is good for the soul
> 
> [Tumblr me folks](http://rosengris.tumblr.com/)


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